


dutiful.

by hyzkoa



Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: amaimon/shiemi only barely hinted if u squint, interpret the nature of amaimon n mephisto's relationship as u wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyzkoa/pseuds/hyzkoa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't read -- don't even look at this if you don't want spoilers of what is happening in the manga.</p><p>Quick ass one-shot based on the chapter 82 raws that I managed to translate in the heat of the moment. Mostly the Amaimon and Mephisto part that the manga kindly skips over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dutiful.

**Author's Note:**

> YO MY BOY AMAIMON IS BACK I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR FOUR YEARS.

“It’s about time, isn’t it?”

A short hum preceded words, a gloved hand then ascending to the height of his eyes to dramatically do the characteristically snap of his fingers. The unspoken command summoned the presence of a floating gate midair, smoke slowly dissipating as the gate settled itself in the room; it was intimidatingly huge, adorned with spikes, chains and what not. The patterns carved into it were anything but demonic, unreadable hieroglyphs printed within careful designs equally divided in each door of the gate.

Its creaking as it opened was ominous, its age given out to be ancient from the noises made by the minimal movement of the gate. Once doors were wide open, both pointing different sides to exhibit the most unsightly of landscapes, hands were placed down onto the wooden desk; fingers dragging his phone next to him already, almost as if he gave no importance to the _long awaited_ (he thought such in mockery) return of the younger one.

“Have you cooled down that empty head of yours already?”

A pointy tongue snaked out closed lips, slowly glossing over his upper lip; the blood, a reminder of his last fight, somewhat fresh in his mouth as his vessel’s injuries immediately worsened the moment he stepped out of Gehenna and into Assiah.

It almost was comical how the two worlds that one would think were impossible to reach from each end of the spectrum were suddenly merged and such was regarded with a painfully casual behavior from both ends. As he had approached the intrusive light (it triggered the unholy screeches of the profane creatures, their claws hooking into the dirt they were confined in as all they could do was reenact the screams of their deaths once again), he jumped lightly out of the floating gate. Bones loudly cracked, his vessel giving into the battle wounds as it returned to its homeland and even so, Amaimon’s expression didn’t change as he crumbled onto the floor.

Mephisto felt his eyes roll by themselves. The idiocy of his younger brother knew no bounds – and even he knew that was a mere insult (the elder were to pick on the youngest of the family, after all – though his way of doing so was a bit more special, more gruesome and certainly more ~~sadistic~~ fun), for the other actually had brains that could rival his own if put to good use. Of course, the likelihood of that happening was more than slim.

Another snap echoed in the room: both doors slammed closed and just a second before they did so, Behemoth rolling desperately between them, bouncing towards his master as he drooled and panted exasperatedly. If one listened closer, one could almost hear a sarcasm-filled ‘oops’ slipping past Samael’s lips.

The gate was now gone and Amaimon stood up with ease.

“Thank you.” The Earth King said with no trace of actual gratitude. Everything but his clothes had been fixed: his face clean, with no scars nor blood, and all his broken and disjointed bones were magically healed and put back to place. He didn’t question why he hadn’t done something so easy back then, after throwing him at Okumura, for he was quite acquainted with his older brother’s sadism. “What am I to do?”

The question served as a clear answer to Amaimon’s now forgotten grudge. _He has remembered his position once again_. The smile on Mephisto’s twisted features faded, eyes indifferently hovering the lock screen of the smartphone now in his hands.

 “Our dear brother has put his plans to motion, shall we follow suit?” No answer from Amaimon, no more than an unwavering and impassive stare. “But those clothes are of no use anymore.” The obvious was stated, yet Amaimon looked down at his attire as if considering whether or not that was true.

Mechanical, meaningless mimicry; Mephisto knew that very well.

“Should I get you new ones again… or should I leave it up to you this time? It should be about time for you to learn some fashion sense.” Anyone, human, who heard that coming from Mephisto himself would either burst in laughter or judge him inwardly. The former, however, seemed more like something a certain, careless half-breed would do.

Amaimon was, once again, silent. The rambling of his brother clearly ignored as he used a patient, one that surely contrasted with his true nature, to wait for Samael to get to the point he so obviously avoided. Any form of small talk was useless with Amaimon and while Mephisto knew that, it still seemed unavoidable for him to spew what others – perhaps, Amaimon – considered as useless.

“Solve it yourself, then.” As his attention had clearly been shifted to the device on his phone, fingers sliding and tapping the screen as he – Amaimon assumed – played a game, Mephisto waved a momentarily free hand shortly at the younger, dismissing his presence off his office. “It doesn’t matter if you’re seen around this time.” After all, the Grigori had accepted to fight fire against fire. “Just don’t cause a ruckus, will you?”

While his behavior seemed to be careless at best, Amaimon could easily catch onto the subliminal tone in his words that dawned on him with the future promise of tortures worse than any of the past he could remember. A nod was his answer, accompanied by a dutiful – rather stoic, almost negligent to his self-preservation – ‘yes, brother’ as he left the office.

* * *

It wasn’t hard to find something of his size. Not when he wasn’t looking for anything that fit perfectly. The shirt, tie and coat didn’t feel tight or suffocating, so it was pointless to resume his _sneaky_ search around the school for such. The pants however… Their height was a tad too short, leaving skin exposed as he adjusted the belts of his shoes – one of the few new things, which would be the gloves with quite a unique design and the transformation of his demon familiar into a keychain he’d attach to his pants’ belt – but that was the last of his concerns.

Of course, before his older brother’s words were to be followed precisely, a well-deserved snack was in order. The money hidden in the pockets of the victim’s clothing was enough for a few of what had become his favorites. A bag of potato chips that didn’t last more than a few seconds as he quite literally emptied its contents into his muzzle and, yes, a lollipop. _It had been years_. Part of them spent in a frozen dimension and the other half spent in Hell; if he had to choose which one he preferred, it was undoubtedly the former. To be once again target of his older, temperamental and equally bored brothers once again – this time in a state in which his vessel barely would heal up with the constant beating from his dear family who would not hesitate in basking in the entertainment that abusing of those weaker in power meant to them, they hadn’t hesitated before, they certainly wouldn’t now – wasn’t anything he was too fond of.

Back arched, head tilting forcefully left and right, then twisting his neck as bones cracked with the actions altogether.

Tongue played with the candy inside his mouth, fingers from both his hands adopting weird positions as the mere movements made bones crack. Followed by applying pressure bellow knuckles to each hand with the opposite, feeling the leather of brand new gloves as he cracked every joint possible.

It was show time.

* * *

The white stick was pinched between forefinger and thumb, head lifting slightly as he gazed down upon what had become his targets.

Truly, it had been enough time to extinguish the fire of his wrath, for seeing his little brother’s face did not ignite anything within him. He was an empty vessel once again, devoid of emotion and limited to mimic human mannerism in order to express himself – or what he thought this ‘himself’ was. The Japanese rolled smoothly out of his tongue, ah, how long had it been since he’d spoken like this.

“If it isn’t Okumura Rin,” there is no contempt in the pronunciation of the name, nor there is any feeling in the syllables spoken – only a dull monotone those before him should remember clearly, “and my bride.” Eyes slid to where the smaller figure stood; she was just as he remembered her, tiny, with big green eyes and soft blonde hair. Her hands lifted to her chest, a clear worried expression worn in her face upon the sight of the King. _She hasn't changed at all._

_No one has._

“ _It’s been a while_.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a brief mention of the Grigori from something hardly remember and I can't be fucked to look up the chapter at this unholy hours of the night. I hoped you enjoyed it, tho. The way Amaimon got his clothes is still a mystery but here I am assuming things the moment my fave character returns.


End file.
